


All obscurity starts with a danger (Bad Company remix)

by anonymousComrade



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Black Romance, F/F, Ouroboros Mix Lightning Round, Post-Sburb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 16:02:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousComrade/pseuds/anonymousComrade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Rose risks her equilibrium and her health in exchange for a free place to sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All obscurity starts with a danger (Bad Company remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gatty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gatty/gifts).
  * Inspired by [All obscurity starts with a danger](https://archiveofourown.org/works/239936) by [gatty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gatty/pseuds/gatty). 



> Thanks to Roachpatrol for running Ouroboros, and to gatty for writing the original. I ship Rose<3<Vriska now, I hope you're happy with yourself. (you should be, it is fun as hell to write)

_That's why they call me_   
_Bad company, I won't deny_   
_Bad, bad company_   
_'Till the day I die_

- _Bad Company_ , Five Finger Death Punch

\--tentacleTherapist [ TT ] began pestering arachnidsGrip [ AG ] --

TT: Hello? Vriska? Are you there?   
TT: You aren't, are you.   
TT: When you get back, would you mind doing me a favor?   
AG: Oh hey Lalonde! No time no seeeeeeee!   
AG: Yeah, I can do you a solid. Whatcha need?   
TT: I hate to impose, but...   
TT: I have a series of meetings with my publishers, and they insist on them happening in person, rather than saving me the cost of travel and doing it over the phone.   
TT: My bank account is sorely lacking, and even if I could afford a room, all the hotels are booked solid.   
AG: Yeah, I heard a8out that. Something a8out three different gaming cons and a concert all happening at once.   
AG: I don't know, I 8arely watch the news.   
AG: Anyway! Sounds like you need a place to staaaaaaaay...   
TT: Well, yes.   
TT: John has informed me that you live in the area, if I am not mistaken?   
TT: It wouldn't be for long, and I'm packing light. Just a week. Maybe not even that.   
TT: Of course, if you can't, that's understandable. I suppose making a road trip and spending the duration in my car isn't completely out of the question.   
AG: Eh.   
AG: If John says you're okay, you're fine 8y me, I suppose.   
AG: Consider it a reunion of the Heroes of Light! Or the first meeting, more like.   
AG: I was sort of a corpse the last time you and I met, after all. ::::/   
TT: You have my gratitude.   
TT: See you in a week, then?   
AG: See you then, Lalonde.

\--tentacleTherapist [ TT ] ceased pestering arachnidsGrip [ AG ] --

You are ROSE LALONDE, and your first grievance with this entire ordeal is the fact that meeting your publishers involves a six-hour trip via Greyhound bus. Four of these hours are spent in the company of a perpetually-crying scared infant who can only seem to sleep in ten-minute intervals. The final two are spent no longer having a seat to yourself, as the bus fills at the final stop before yours, and you quickly find out that your new seatmate snores. _Loudly._

Your second grievance is that, according to Vriska, making your way from the final bus stop to her apartment involves a trip via subway that requires no less than eight stops and changes. It is only after acquiring a map after the sixth change and looking it over during your seventh ride that you work out that you could have made the journey in as little as two stops.

Your third grievance is that Vriska's place is a fucking mess.

Vriska herself sits on a bare matress supported by milk crates in the corner, busily typing at a laptop sitting atop a cardboard box. Various articles of clothing, take-out boxes and menus, and snack wrappers litter the floor. A window-mounted air conditioner sits underneath one of the two windows in the apartment, unused and presumably broken, in the dead July heat.

Without looking back, she tosses something at you. You barely percieve the glint of metal in the air before it hits your chest with a dull thud. You just barely catch it before it drops to the ground.

A key.

Don't go losing that. It's the only spare I've got.  
So, this is certainly... a place. It's... cozy.  
Yeah, it's kind of small, 8ut it's home. Make yourself comforta8le. There's leftover Chinese in the kitchen if you're hungry.

You spy a pair of takeout boxes sitting on the counter, soaked through with grease and crowded by flies.

You make a mental note not to unpack.

I'll try to the best of my ability not to be in your way while I'm here.  
That's cool. No de8auchery unless I know a8out it 8eforehand, 'kay?

You glace down at your watch and, noting that you have three hours before your first meeting with your publisher, make your way to the bathroom to change. Nothing in it looks as though it's been properly cleaned in years; the shower tiles are mildewed, scale deposits line the sink.

It can't be too hard to find a public restroom to change in.

Leaving so soooooooon?  
My first meeting is in three hours.  
Oh, right, that. Good luck, I guess.

You lock the door behind you, and, suitcase in hand, make for the cafe you've decided to meet at.

==>

Your last draft was less than satisfactory.  
Well, good evening to you, too.  
Don't get me wrong, I--- oh, thank you.

A waiter brings two cups of coffee to the table. Your publishers' representative, a stocky, balding man in a brown business suit, pushes one of the cups toward you. The waiter asks if you want sugar or cream; you decline, preferring to take your coffee black. He departs to serve another table shortly, and your meeting begins again.

Like I was about to say, *I* like your stuff. That series you write, whatsit--- Zatanna, that's the one, it's good stuff.  
Zazzerpan?  
Yeah, that's it! Personally, I love it. It's good writing. There's just one problem.  
Oh?  
Well, two, actually. The last draft of the new one, it's too short, they're saying. Especially taking into account how long you took to write it. Not my words, that's just what they tell me.

You take a long draught of coffee and sigh before continuing.

I can't say I'm terribly thrilled with how it turned out either, I must admit.  
Which brings me to the next problem: the focus group hated it. Now, personally, I love Zatarain.  
You mean Zazzerpan?  
Him too. I think it's well-written, it's intelligent, you don't just go with whatever the flavor of the week is, and you don't dumb down the text just to appeal to the lowest common denominator. I respect that. It's good to stick to your principles as a writer.

He takes a sip of his own coffee, loaded with cream, before continuing.

But the focus group hates it. It's boring, it's dry, it's too wordy, they can't follow it. They can't relate to the characters. Again, their words, not mine.

You take a deep breath, somewhat frustrated. More than a few critics have said the same thing of your work, and it's a complaint that is becoming more and more common.

The problem, I think, is that wizards are old hat. When Rowling decided it was time to wrap things up, people stopped caring about wizards. But people still like the supernatural, something that doesn't happen in everyday life, it's just their tastes are changing. You know what they like now?

Oh, hell. You can already tell where this is going. This is not the first time they have tried to push this on you.

Vampires?  
Vampires. Which reminds me, the focus group loved the two vampire characters in the draft you submitted, so it wasn't all bad.

You rack your brain trying to understand what he's getting at. As far as you can remember, there was only ever one vampire in your stories, and he was a minor character, at that.

Wait, surely he doesn't mean...

You mean Demitri and Morrigan?  
Yeah, the focus group loved them! We think, maybe, you could, I dunno, focus on them a bit more?  
But Morrigan isn't even a vampire, she's a succ--  
Maybe they could have a romance or something? People seem to love that.  
Did any of those half-wits even read the draft? They have been mortal enemies for--  
Nothing a little character development can't fix, right? I mean, you're Rose Lalonde. If anyone can make it work, it's you.

You slump back into your seat, defeated. There will be no staving off the demands of your publishers this time, not after this meeting. They will have their vampire story, or they will have another author write it for them.

You slam the rest of your coffee. It burns its way down your throat, warming your stomach as you ready yourself. The first problem, you have discovered, with your publishers, is that they don't care as much about their writers as they do about sales, which you suppose is par for the course, but not quite what they advertised when you signed with them.

When you do want the next draft?  
End of the month, if you can manage it.  
...That's in one week.

The second problem is that they have no concept of realistic deadlines.

That's what I told them. Hey, don't look at me like that, I'm just the messenger. But hey, I got faith in you. I always said, "that woman who writes the Zutara series? Yeah, she's quality."

The third is that they _always_ talk to you through some brown-nosing asshole.

==>

Soooooooo???????? How'd it go?  
I've got a week to completely rewrite my next book.  
Fun times.

Vriska sits at the window sill. Her eighth-story apartment has a perfect view of the street and the building across it, and not much else. She is chomping on a carton of fried rice, wearing the same dirty tank top and cutoffs she wore when you arrived.

You wonder if that's going to be a constant.

She passes you the box of rice; when you decline, she shoots you a look like she's somewhat offended at your refusal before she realizes.

Ohhhhhhhh! This one's fresh. My 8ad, I forget how weak your pathetic human immune systems are sometimes.

You shrug off the insult to your biology as you remove the wrapping from the black plastic fork you pocketed from the cafe earlier. The troll race's shared sense of casual smug superiority is something you have gotten used to in the shared world SBURB has seen fit to give you.

Also, it's kind of true. Trolls seem to be made of tougher stuff than humans.

Hey, watch this.

Vriska scoops a forkfull of rice from the box and picks a pea out of it with her fingers. She turns toward the open window, sets the carton down, brings the pea up to eye level, and tosses it to the street.

You watch it descend and bean a kid in the face. As he looks around for the source of the projectile, Vriska is in hysterics.

OH MY GOD LALONDE DID YOU SEEEEEEEE TH8T?!?!?!?! RIGHT IN HIS FUCKING F8CE! FROM 8 STORIES UP! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!  
...You've done this before, haven't you.  
And it never gets old!

Her laptop beeps. Vriska's laughter dies as she moves to check it.

So, what is it that you *do*?  
Jo8s are for suckers who can't con *other* suckers. 8esides, you don't need a jo8 when you have as much luck as I do.

Vriska's "cons", as she explains, are using her massive reserves of luck to cheat at online poker (How are they going to tell I'm doing it? How can they even prove that? They can't! And that's the 8eauty of it!). Her winnings go primarily toward subscriptions to online RPGs, where she deals in real money trade. From Warcraft gold to Final Fantasy gil to EVE Online ISK, Vriska dabbles in a little of everything.

8n't never 8een caught, either. I'm the 8est at what I do.

Her computer beeps again, and she waves you off. According to her, something called "Dynamis" is about to begin.

Remembering your assignment, you take your laptop from your case and return to the window sill. It is the dog days of summer, and even the coolest place in the apartment is sweltering. The laptop's fan struggles against the combined heat of circuitry and the environment. You open Microsoft Word and type the first sentence that comes to mind before staring at the still, blinking cursor for five entire minutes, then save the document to an ever-growing folder full of files just like it.

You are not sure how, or if, you can use any of them.

Hey, what's your wireless password?

Vriska doesn't respond, either ignoring you or so immersed in the game that she doesn't notice you. With the last bastion of distraction denied you, and the echo of the police siren dying as the cop car pulls around the block and out of sight, you begin to write.

==>

Hey, Lalonde! I'm heading out to the store for smokes in a 8it. You wanna come with?

Vriska's shout from the kitchen awakens you rather rudely. You remember now, after nodding off at the keyboard, curling up at the end of Vriska's matress in the early morning.

You make your way to the apartment's tiny kitchen, passing Vriska en route. She takes a bag of Doritos to her laptop, where she is still in her virtual realms. You take a plastic cup from a stack of them on the counter and throw it at Vriska; it lands perfectly atop one of her horns.

Where's your coffee?  
Rude! If my party wipes here, it's totally your fault.  
I'm sorry, but I lack the caffeine required to give a damn about your virtual alter-ego.  
I don't drink coffee. It makes me jittery.

You find that hard to believe, given the pyramid of Monster cans stacked neatly by the matress, but you have not been awake long enough to argue. You wheel your case into the bathroom and, catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, realize you forgot to change last night. You have sweat through your good clothes. You wash your face and try to scrub off some of last night's sweat.

Vriska is waiting for you when you emerge from the bathroom.

Soooooooo, you're a morning girl, huh? I prefer evenings myself 8ut hey, whatever floats your 8oat.

She moves her face closer to yours, grinning and eyebrows waggling suggestively.

I'm afraid I don't understand your nautical metaphors, Vriska.  
The 8oat is your seedflap. Floating would 8e--  
Ugh, forget I asked.

You step out of the bathroom and make your way to where you left your shoes last night.

So you're going out in that, I presume?  
Yeah. Why, what's wrong with it?

Vriska is still wearing the dirty tanktop and cutoff shorts she wore when you first arrived. You are pretty sure she isn't wearing a bra, either. Suddenly, the realization dawns on her.

Oh! Yeah, hold on, I totally forgot.

She bends over and retrieves a pair of bright blue flip-flops from under a stack of Game Informers. She is most _definitely_ not wearing a bra. You turn to the window to deflect suspicion as you feel your face heat up.

Totally forgot a8out their no shoes, no service policy. Alright, let's go.

The grocery store is a small and sort of run-down place a couple of blocks away. The AC is running at full power and you wonder if there's a way to stay here for the rest of your trip. Vriska immediately makes for the refrigerated section and picks up a gallon of orange juice. Your search for coffee ends quickly; the store's selection is somewhat limited, but you'll take what you can get at this point.

When you find Vriska again, she's cramming handfuls of packets of pills into her pockets.

Bloody hell-- what are you doing?  
THEEEEEEEERE you are! C'mere, Lalonde, I've got a jo8 for you.

She grabs your arm and stuffs a pill bottle down your shirt. Before you have a chance to protest, Vriska is halfway to the checkout, dragging you behind her.

Listen, I understand you don't exactly play by society's rules. "Can't be tamed" and all that. But why are you implicating me in this theft of pharmaceuticals?  
You're wearing more clothes than I am. I almost never get a chance to lift an entire 8ottle, I usually only get the singles.  
I thought you had aaaaaaaall the luck.  
There's only so much luck can do! Now shut up and stay still if you don't want to go to prison.

You are not entirely comfortable with the idea of shoplifting pain medication that you do not require, but Vriska has other ideas, and they all involve walking out of this store with unpaid-for pills.

Too l8 now. 8ack out now and they'll know you tried to steal.  
*I* tried to steal?! This was entirely your idea, Serket.  
Since when do *you* give a fuck about the rules? You certainly didn't 8ack in the game!  
Breaking an unwinnable session and risking prosecution for pills I don't need are two entirely different things, and you know it.  
*I* need them! Think of it as paying me 8ack for letting you stay at my place.  
Then I demand a refund.

Vriska shoots you a cold glare as the register jockey begins ringing up your more legit purchases. You bag your coffee and Vriska's cigarettes and orange juice as she pays for them with a debit card. On your way out, Vriska slaps your ass.

I knew you could do it! How's it feel to 8e a hardened criminal?  
Fuck. You.

Vriska looks almost natural in the dead heat of summer, filthy clothes and messy hair aside. You, however, look like a damn lobster. Troll skin is practically immune to sunburn. Your fair complexion is not.

Vriska pulls a lighter from her pocket and plucks the cigarettes from the bag, ripping open the carton and extracting a pack. They are obviously an Alternian blend, if the script on the package is any indication. The way the cigarette sits on Vriska's lips is somehow fascinating, and you wonder why you think this.

Oh, sorry. You want one?

She extends the pack toward you, one cigarette jutting out from the rest. If they are truly Alternian cigarettes, they are likely made with trollbacco, which is quite a bit stronger than the stuff they had back on Earth, and also sort of a controlled substance for humans.

Eh. Fuck it. You take the cigarette and Vriska lights it for you.

Thaaaaaaaat's my girl.

==>

Back at the apartment, you immediately fill a plastic up with water and set it to heat in the microwave. You retrieve the pill bottle from between your breasts; you have stolen a 500-count bottle of aspirin, and you are unsure as to how you were talked into it. You wash your face again in the kitchen sink. The heat is stifling. You throw open the window but it accomplishes nothing aside from letting in exhaust from traffic at street level.

You take a drag of the cigarette and pull the pack Vriska has given you (for good beh8vior!!!!!!!!) from your pocket. The microwave beeps; steam fogs up its window. You retrieve the cup and add a scoop of instant coffee. It is undoubtedly the worst cup of coffee ever made in the history of _any_ space, paradox or otherwise. When you finish it, and your cigarette has burned to the filter, you pick up your laptop and open it. You have five thousand words from last night.

Later that night, you take a place at the foot of the matress and sleep, leaving behind five thousand more words, cigarette butts, and the bottom fifth of a cup of coffee you cannot bring yourself to finish.

==>

You awake to the sound of a car horn blaring through the window from the streets below. A couple argues in the apartment below Vriska's. The position you ended up falling asleep in does you no favors. Your shoulders ache, and your hip is sore from lying on an out-of-place spring in the matress.

The clock on your laptop says you've got fifteen minutes until your next meeting. You make your way to the bathroom, catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, and swear under your breath. Your hair is soaked with sweat, as are, you realize, your smart clothes. Well, they'll have to do. You can't show up to a meeting in a t-shirt, after all. You heat another cup of coffee as you put them on. It is almost as bad as the cup you made last night, but your system _requires_ caffiene to function right now.

Vriska wakes up to you clattering around the apartment. She's been asleep for eighteen hours but she looks like hell. She rummages through the kitchen, finding what she's looking for quickly.

You look on, horrified, as a slice of raw bacon slides down Vriska's throat.

Vriska must have noticed you staring, because she immediately cuts you down.

Rose Lalonde, master of tact. I can see why Kanaya likes you.

You wince at the mention of your mutual friend.

I am the very pinnacle of charm and grace. Now if you please, would you mind cooking that bacon before eating it? Otherwise, I will not be responsible for what my digestive system may produce directly onto your computer.

Can do.

You turn away from the spectacle and try to fix your hair as best you can. You do not like to use the word "dread", or any synonym thereof, but you are not looking forward to this meeting, to put it lightly.

So, do you even own a refrigerator? Or a clotheswasher? Maybe all this is a troll thing, but I'm starting to wonder.  
Fridges are expensive and the laundry room is four floors down. Eff that, I said. 8n't got the time.

Vriska is entirely too comfortable around black mold and faulty wiring.

8esides, what's the point of a fridge anyway? Cold, warm, it all tastes the same going down.  
In case you've forgotten, the human digestive system tends to react badly to being flooded with scores of foreign bacteria.  
Too 8ad. The troll digestive system appreci8s the extra protein.

You groan at Vriska's insistance at grossing you out. Your hair is disgusting, and you only hate yourself more when you realize that you would have had time to shower had you not insisted on calling Vriska out on her dietary activities. You gulp down another mouthful of coffee and take a step toward the door, nearly slipping on one of the many objects littering the floor that, until now, you have skillfully dodged.

You do not fall. But the damage is done. A dark stain spreads across your blouse as Vriska howls with laughter. You stomp to the bathroom, strip off your stained blouse, and set it in the sink to soak. The camisole underneath fared better against the coffee assault, so you resign yourself to it.

Vriska wolf-whistles at you as you exit the bathroom.

I hope that bacon gives you diarrhea.

That only serves to send her into another laughing fit as you slam the apartment door shut.

==>

You spend twenty minutes on the A train before realizing just how late you are for your meeting. By the time you will arrive, the meeting's scheduled conclusion will be in five minutes.

Fuck it, you decide.

Instead, you make your way to a park and find a bench to yourself to unwind. Students come and go from the university nearby. For thirty minutes, your mind does not think of meetings or deadlines or Vriska or crappy apartments.

Checking your wallet on the A train back reveals you are exactly thirty cents richer than you expected. This brings your grand total of cash on hand up to two dollars and eighty cents. You decide, when you get back to the apartment, that you will take your laptop and enjoy a coffee in somewhere air-conditioned. You can practically feel the cool air on your skin already.

Your mind snaps when you find what Vriska has done to the blouse you left in the sink. Rather than leaving well enough alone, she has apparently found it hilarious to mix instant coffee with the hot water. You find a note on the sink.

Hope this helps!!!!!!!! No one will notice the stain if your entire shirt is stained, right?

That. _**Tears it.**_

She wants to play passive-aggressive? She just stepped into the big leagues. Vriska has no idea what she's done. You are going to bring the hammer _down_. This is _war_ , and you will bring it until it is the most brought it is ever being. Until it is _so_ brought.

Vriska is still in the apartment, but she is asleep. You test just how deep her sleep is by slamming the door. She turns over on the matress and groans before falling asleep again. _Perfect_.

The first casualty is Vriska's game accounts. You will not simply unsubscribe, or delete her characters. That's petty, and doesn't get the point across. It takes you a little time to get used to the games' interfaces, but you have no trouble adjusting. You vendor everything, _everything_ you can, and discard what you cannot. Her characters quite possibly have more in-game currency than they have ever had or will ever have again.

You then find the dumbest thing to waste it all on, and do so. Spinerret, the level 85 Night Elf rogue, is now the proud owner of hundreds of Blood Parrots. Mindfang, the level 99 Mithra corsair, now possesses an extensive collection of flasks of Deodorizer.

After enhancing Vriska's characters, you gather up all the laundry scattered about the apartment and carry it and your computer down four flights of stairs. You step into the laundry room; it is much hotter here than in the apartment, and for a few seconds you can understand Vriska's reluctance to come here. Several machines sit unused; you elect to dump all of Vriska's laundry, colors and whites and all, into a single machine, on the hottest setting. You open the laptop and begin to write again. You transfer the clothes to the dryer when the washer has finished, and fold them once the dryer has finished.

Your laptop balances on the pile of freshly laundered clothes as you climb the stairs back up. The stairwell, you swear, has gotten hotter since you came down. Sweat trickles down your back. When you arrive in front of Vriska's door, you fumble with the laundry and drop it and the key. A passing neighbor helps you; when he asks why you have a key to Vriska's apartment, you summon your worst impression of a Russian accent and tell him I come from Ukraine. Am, how you say, mail-order bride? Vriska, she takes care of me, she helps me come to America, I stay with her, yes? You are pretty sure he buys it.

You sit at the window sill, open your laptop, and pass the time by writing until Vriska wakes. When she does, she almost immediately spies the now-clean clothes. You are kind of expecting to be yelled at when she picks up a t-shirt, puts it on, and it stops just under her breasts. Instead, Vriska only pauses for a moment before shrugging it off and continuing like nothing is different. You try not to stare at the outline of her backbone through her shirt as she plays poker on her computer, opting to concentrate on your writing.

Hahahahahahahaha, so that's why I couldn't find anything you wrote, you use a pen name! Hey Lalonde, "Zazzerpan and the Salacious Midnight" ring a 8ell? Your sales don't seem to 8e so hot, though.

You frown before cracking your knuckles.

I'll have you know my publishers are currently in the middle of a legal dispute with Amazon, preventing my books from selling as many copies as they could be capable of. My physical sales are quite impressive, I assure you. Albania, in particular, seems to enjoy my work.  
Yeah, okay, sure.

Vriska blows her nose on a sock.

So how's the next volume of wizard sex going? Magic lube and enchanted dildos, I presume?  
At least I'm accomplishing something. Tell me when you achieve more than conning a bunch of kids out of their lunch money.  
Implying I don't have plenty of achievements! Do you know how many irons I have in the fire?  
Yes, I'm quite aware of the quantity of your vaunted irons. I'd say they're almost as numerous as your tropical birds or your exotic perfumes.  
...What are you getting at?

A few moments later, she finds _exactly_ what you were getting at. Your mouth cannot help but form into a smirk as Vriska's jaw drops.

WH8T TH8 F8CK?!?!?!?! Th8t w8s tot8lly unc8lled for! I had Legend8ries, I had RELIC! Are you even AW8RE how much godd8mn gil goes into a fucking Mandau?!  
That was COMPLETELY called for! Do you have ANY idea how MISERABLE I've been having to put up with, with YOU in this tiny, shitty space in this insufferable heat?!  
You're the one who asked ME for a pl8ce to st8y, you stupid 8itch! You COOOOOOOOULD have stayed with Kanaya, she lives like thirty minutes away from here 8UT OH NO, HERP A DERP A DURR I went grimdark for all of fifteen goddamn minutes 8efore Jack showed me his sta8s so now I guess I'm gonna make myself misera8le for all of f8cking eternity!!!!!!!! Never mind that I came 8ack to life and went God Tier and everything turned out ok8y!!!!!!!!

You have never been madder in your entire life, but one wouldn't know it to look at you. Instead, calmly and coolly, you speak the next thing that comes to mind.

I don't know what John sees in you.

Vriska's face twists, half-horror, half-shock.

You take that 8ack.  
I won't.

Her face is inches from yours now. Her bottom lip is trembling.

No one buys this bravado act. You think *I'm* punishing myself? Take a look in the fucking mirror. Look at this shit heap you live in. Is this your way of apologizing to everyone for the circumstances of your upbringing? Do you live in squalor because, when you close your eyes at night, all you can see are troll children begging for their lives as your lusus devours them, and even though you KNOW John would have you, flushed or pale, you also KNOW you don't deserve better?

Your words are a laser-guided scalpel, they cut quickly and to the bone and Vriska is nothing more than a skeleton now.

In retrospect, when you consider what trolls are, you really should have seen Vriska's next move coming.

Her lips are upon yours in a flash. Your first instinct is to _run_ , leave your things behind and get the fuck out of there. That thought leaves your mind when Vriska pushes you, hard, against the wall. You stomp her foot, and she bites your tongue in response. Her hand slithers up your skirt; one of yours snakes under her shirt while the other pulls at her hair. She bites your lower lip as she alternatively rubs and scratches at you.

You do not remember when the two of you managed to reach the matress. You do not remember how you both ended up naked and fighting for dominance in this caliginous waltz. At some point your vision goes hazy and your skull throbs and you _come_ , and Vriska moans and shudders and writhes with her own climax not long after.

You make another cup of coffee, paying attention to the exact temperature of the water and measurement of grounds. Vriska, you are certain, is struggling not to cry. This day, she has discovered, that for all your curves you are not soft, and you know better than anyone how to rip and tear and _wound_.

You give Vriska your coffee. She chugs most of it in one go.

You queue up National Treasure on pay-per-view as Vriska orders a round of fried rice. You point out blatant inaccuracies and the two of you laugh. You don't remember how the two of you became tangled together, but you drift off to sleep that way.

In the morning, you take your laptop to a nearby library and print a copy of your story. You drop it off before you can convince yourself not to.

Vriska is still asleep when you return. You turn on her computer and open Notepad.

I believe my time here is over. I just turned in my draft, so my business here is concluded. Thank you for allowing me to stay.

-RL

Eh. Suit yourself.

Her voice makes you jump. You were not expecting her to awaken just yet.

You'd 8etter get a move on, though. I told Kanaya you were going to meet her for coffee and I'm suuuuuuuure you don't want to 8e l8!

You hug her. This is the first genuinely nice thing she's done since you arrived.

Thanks.  
No 8iggie. I took a picture of your 8oo8s and sent it to her too, so don't think you've got a shot at getting out of this one!

Well. It wouldn't be a _caliginous_ fling without at least a few shots fired. Still, you have to make an effort to pick your jaw up off the floor.

They're niiiiiiiice! Seriously! If you and her ever want a threesome, you call me!

You finish packing your case and bite your lip to keep from spouting an obscene reply. Instead, you simply let Vriska know the score.

I deleted all your saved passwords, uninstalled your antivirus software, signed you up for Plush Rump's mailing list on ALL of your e-mail accounts, posted your Warcraft password in the official forums, and shouted "{Gil} {Do you need it} {Buy?} /tell Mindfang {Lower the price?} OK" for thirty minutes in Port Jeuno.  
Hahahahahahahaha! Spades you too, Lalonde!

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, I hope you like this! I've barely played WoW, but I've played FFXI going on five years now, so my references lean more toward it than WoW. Also turning Vriska into a gilseller just seems _right_. It is _so_ Vriska.
> 
> Again, props to gatty for writing the original story. I was a Terezi<3<Vriska man until this remix. Now, I am sad that Rose<3<Vriska will probably not be canon.


End file.
